Because Cristela’s far from innocent, if she baked the cupcake that made Bandit sick.

Because it was my hand that gave the dessert to Bandit. Even if I didn’t have full control over it. I’m a direct link in the chain of events that led to him throwing up all night. Why didn’t the Voice tell me the cupcake was poisonous?

She’d been so adamant that he eat the whole thing.

I stumble backward. Away from Lee and Cristela, two people who have just climbed my list of suspects for being the Maker. Away from the doubt and confusion that are suddenly chasing each other round and round my midsection.

But I have one more thing to do before I can leave.

“Lee, you’re an ass,” I call out. “You’re going to pay for what you did to Archie.”

“Wasn’t me, dude,” he says. But the laughter in his eyes, the smugness in his smile contradict his words.

“Watch your back,” I say darkly. “Someday, when you least expect it, justice will be served.”

And I’m really hoping it’s me, or at least my older self, who doles out that justice.

In the meantime, I have bigger concerns. Same side or not, the Voice tricked me. She made me hurt someone against my will.

And I’m not okay with anyone deceiving me. Even if it’s myself.

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Half an hour later, I’m ringing the doorbell to an unfamiliar house. Bandit’s, to be precise. My older self wouldn’t approve. She warned me not to fall for him. To avoid talking to him any more than is necessary. I’m pretty sure visiting him at home crosses the boundary she wants to erect between us.

Well, I don’t care. I’m sick of doing what I’m told just because my older self said so. Bandit is so far my best—and only—access to Charlie. The fact that I feel guilty as hell about poisoning him is only a secondary concern.

Even if it gives me a perfect excuse to visit.

Determinedly, I press the buzzer again, faintly sick at my own deception. Is this what the future has turned me into? What’s an acceptable price to pay for saving the world?

Bandit opens the door. He’s not wearing a shirt, and his sweatpants ride low. If I looked, I could probably see his hip bones. Not that I’m going to look.

My throat goes dry. Resolutely, I fix my eyes on his face. He’s gaping at me, his skin sallow, his eyes fatigued.

His hair flops onto his forehead. Instead of its usual brilliant blue, the color’s faded to a tarnished silver, with bits of bleached blond scattered throughout.

He must use a shampoo to maintain the color, I realize. And last night, he was too busy vomiting to apply it.